A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating recently - been busy fitting back into the school routine, not to mention the homework. Gerh. Enough about that - here's chapter ten!
Disclaimer: I doth not own the Doctor of Who. Nay, that honour is the sole right of ye olde BBC. CHAPTER TEN: SEVEN YEARS BAD LUCK
"This should about do it," the Doctor said, pressing a twenty dollar note into Brittany's hand. "Don't stay out too long."
"I'll be careful, dad," Brittany jested, tucking the cash into her pocket before she slipped out the door. The lights flickered on, revealing the interior of the warehouse they'd holed up in. The Doctor shuddered. This warehouse looked disturbingly similar to the one he, Martha and Jack had hidden out in while on the run from his dear old friend the Master. The location might change, as might the villain of the week, but warehouses still looked the same the world over. What a dump.
The roof was leaky, water dripping down to form a puddle on the cracked concrete floor and the walls, also made of concrete, looked to be on the verge of collapse. Crates were stacked haphazardly all over the place, and the Doctor managed to find three chairs and a small coffee table jammed into the mess. Sam returned from his trip to find the light switch and sank gratefully into one of the padded chairs. The Doctor had already chosen his chair, and had purloined the table for his footrest.
"Where'd you find all this?" Sam asked, gesturing at the furniture.
The Doctor leant back into his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "I found a crate of furniture over there." He sniffed dismissively. "This place looks like somewhere to store all sorts of random odds and ends." He grinned and pulled something large and plastic out of his pocket. "Look what I found!"
"It's hideous!"
"Is it?" The Doctor sounded surprised, and he stared at the thing in his hand. "No, it's a Kewpie doll."
Sam shook his head. "It's still hideous."
The alien looked at the creepy plastic doll again. "Yeah, I s'pose you're right," he conceded as he casually chucked the toy over his shoulder without a second thought. It skittered across the floor and came to rest against a moth-eaten lampshade.
Fixing the Doctor with a gaze that the alien appeared not to notice, Sam leant forward. "Where're you from Doctor?" he asked. "Cos you're certainly not a local."
"Place called Gallifrey," the Doctor replied, not really playing attention at all. "It's a long way from here."
"Gallifrey," Sam repeated, rolling the word around his mouth. "Is it that in Ireland?"
The Doctor shrugged, and Sam didn't know whether to take it as a yes or no. "So," the younger man continued, "those things chasing me…"
"Were aliens, yah," the Doctor supplied. "They're called Ma'ark."
"Ma'ark," Sam repeated.
"Yah," the Doctor said again. "And they're not very nice." The Time Lord leant forward, moving his arm so he could rest his chin on his hand. "One thing I haven't worked out yet is why you? I know how they got here, what they're doing here and how they're gonna do it, but I don't know why they chose you. Why come all this way just to pick on Sam Taylor?"
"Gallifrey isn't in Ireland, is it?"
The Doctor shook his head. "No, it isn't."
"But you look human!"
The alien just winked at him, and continued with his train of thought as if that short interlude had never happened. "Why you, Mister Taylor? What have you ever done that made the Ma'ark take an interest in you?"
"I dunno," Sam murmured, "nothing really. I mean, I'm ordinary."
"They don't think you are," the Doctor pointed out. "They think there's something special about you, something that makes you different from every other person they could have chosen. But what is it? Think, Sam."
"Maybe it's because I believe in aliens. I mean, before it was worldwide and stuff," Sam suggested.
The Doctor rubbed his fingers against his temple. "That might be part of it, but if that were the only reason, there'd be thousands of candidates. No, there's something else."
"Well…"
"What? What is it?"
Sam hesitated. "There was that mirror I broke. Seven years ago today."
"Mirror?"
"I know, it's stupid. I shouldn't have mentioned it," Sam said, but something was lighting up in the Doctor's eyes.
"Yes," the alien said triumphantly, rising to his feet. "That sounds just like the Ma'ark, preying on superstitious fears." He snapped his fingers. "Oh yes, yes, yes that's it. I should have seen it sooner. The Ma'ark like to play on subconscious fears. Well, to put it another way, they really like to freak people out."
"Well, it's working," Sam put in. "I'm feeling pretty freaked out right now." He took a deep breath. "And what happens then?"
"Decapitation."
"Right, now I'm extremely freaked out," Sam admitted. "You're not helping."
The Doctor sat back down in his chair. "By Rassilon, I hate the Ma'ark," he muttered, "and it always falls to me to be the good guy and save everyone, doesn't it?" He sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. "And I haven't got a single idea how to do it."
Which wasn't strictly true. No, he did have one idea on how to save Sam, but that idea… What he should have said was that he didn't have any ideas that didn't involve violence.